too, though the prevailing wisdom among boys my age was that this was unlikely because the girlfriend was Catrina Royce and she was way too beautiful to permit sex.
My family didn’t have much extra money to throw around, so in order to pay for my cigarette habit and to purchase the correct high-waisted trousers and garish designer jackets that were so important for a junior would-be thug on the rise, I had to find a job. I didn’t have the nerve for shoplifting, and in any case thievery of that sort was considered somewhat dishonorable. I didn’t have the connections to get the premium occupation available, which was working on an ice cream van, nor had I the money to buy my way into the paper-delivery business. (Established paper routes changed hands at a great price.)
I eventually found a job delivering milk. Every morning at four-thirty a big flatbed truck driven by a moonfaced dairy farmer called Bob Clyne would show up at my front door and I’d shuffle out, shivering inside my army-surplus nylon parka. The climate in Glasgow in the winter is similar to Moscow’s, so you have to have protection.
The Cumbernauld area was made up of mile upon mile of tenements, high-rise blocks, and council-rented terraces with no shops or amenities in between, so milk delivery was an essential service toa populace who used a little of it in every one of the billions of cups of tea they drank every day.
I would sit on the back of the truck with my two teenage coworkers, coughing from the black diesel exhaust and jumping off when the vehicle slowed and grabbing crates of bottled milk and fresh rolls to leave on the doorstep for the occupants to collect when they awoke. It was punishing physical work, and by eight-thirty, when I finished my rounds and headed to school, I was exhausted. It wasn’t too bad on a day when there was a double French or Chemistry class, which I could nap through, but lessons with a teacher who was vigilant were tough.
The money was great, however. Not just the base pay, which wasn’t bad at four quid (about eight dollars) a week, but also the tips which we could make on a Thursday night when we’d go door to door along the delivery route to collect on the weekly amount owed to Clyne’s Dairies by the customer. Most blue-collar workers got paid on Thursdays, so that night was the time to collect, before other creditors, or the pub, beat you to it. I have always found that, contrary to stereotype, Scottish people are very generous, especially to individuals whose jobs seem more menial than their own—like milk boys—so some weeks I could double my basic pay with tips given by grateful, admittedly slightly tipsy, customers.
Because I was a workingman I always had a few quid in my pocket and I always had cigarettes, which is how I met Stuart Calhoun. I had heard of him, or rather I knew he existed—it was his older brother, Sandy, I had heard of. Sandy Calhoun was a legend, a celebrated warrior who drank whiskey, fought the police when he got arrested, got into real fights with real weapons, and even though he no longer went to school, the teachers feared him. They knew Sandy was just the kind of violent and unpredictable lunatic who might return to settle a score with someone who had belted him when he was younger. He graffitied his tag—“San-D”—all over town like some kind of Caledonian outlaw Trump. Sandy Calhoun both terrified and fascinated all of us. I have no idea where he is today, my guess is he’s either in jail, dead, or heading a large multinational corporation.
I was hanging out behind the gym one day when Stuart Calhoun asked me if I had an extra cigarette. Normally the stock answer would have been no, but, knowing who his big brother was and being something of a weasely politician, I handed him one of my Benny Hedgehogs and allowed him a light from my plastic Bic.
Stuart, as it turned out, was nothing like Sandy, or at least not like Sandy was reputed to be. I think Stuart was
My family didn’t have much extra money to throw around, so in order to pay for my cigarette habit and to purchase the correct high-waisted trousers and garish designer jackets that were so important for a junior would-be thug on the rise, I had to find a job. I didn’t have the nerve for shoplifting, and in any case thievery of that sort was considered somewhat dishonorable. I didn’t have the connections to get the premium occupation available, which was working on an ice cream van, nor had I the money to buy my way into the paper-delivery business. (Established paper routes changed hands at a great price.)
I eventually found a job delivering milk. Every morning at four-thirty a big flatbed truck driven by a moonfaced dairy farmer called Bob Clyne would show up at my front door and I’d shuffle out, shivering inside my army-surplus nylon parka. The climate in Glasgow in the winter is similar to Moscow’s, so you have to have protection.
The Cumbernauld area was made up of mile upon mile of tenements, high-rise blocks, and council-rented terraces with no shops or amenities in between, so milk delivery was an essential service toa populace who used a little of it in every one of the billions of cups of tea they drank every day.
I would sit on the back of the truck with my two teenage coworkers, coughing from the black diesel exhaust and jumping off when the vehicle slowed and grabbing crates of bottled milk and fresh rolls to leave on the doorstep for the occupants to collect when they awoke. It was punishing physical work, and by eight-thirty, when I finished my rounds and headed to school, I was exhausted. It wasn’t too bad on a day when there was a double French or Chemistry class, which I could nap through, but lessons with a teacher who was vigilant were tough.
The money was great, however. Not just the base pay, which wasn’t bad at four quid (about eight dollars) a week, but also the tips which we could make on a Thursday night when we’d go door to door along the delivery route to collect on the weekly amount owed to Clyne’s Dairies by the customer. Most blue-collar workers got paid on Thursdays, so that night was the time to collect, before other creditors, or the pub, beat you to it. I have always found that, contrary to stereotype, Scottish people are very generous, especially to individuals whose jobs seem more menial than their own—like milk boys—so some weeks I could double my basic pay with tips given by grateful, admittedly slightly tipsy, customers.
Because I was a workingman I always had a few quid in my pocket and I always had cigarettes, which is how I met Stuart Calhoun. I had heard of him, or rather I knew he existed—it was his older brother, Sandy, I had heard of. Sandy Calhoun was a legend, a celebrated warrior who drank whiskey, fought the police when he got arrested, got into real fights with real weapons, and even though he no longer went to school, the teachers feared him. They knew Sandy was just the kind of violent and unpredictable lunatic who might return to settle a score with someone who had belted him when he was younger. He graffitied his tag—“San-D”—all over town like some kind of Caledonian outlaw Trump. Sandy Calhoun both terrified and fascinated all of us. I have no idea where he is today, my guess is he’s either in jail, dead, or heading a large multinational corporation.
I was hanging out behind the gym one day when Stuart Calhoun asked me if I had an extra cigarette. Normally the stock answer would have been no, but, knowing who his big brother was and being something of a weasely politician, I handed him one of my Benny Hedgehogs and allowed him a light from my plastic Bic.
Stuart, as it turned out, was nothing like Sandy, or at least not like Sandy was reputed to be. I think Stuart was
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